


Tired of the Wonder

by rideswraptors



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, There won't be more parts, Yes I wrote another one, Yes I'm sorry about it, mostly Sansa POV, no, post-war fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 10:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12408336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: Jon Snow comes home, and he has no intention of leaving again.





	1. The Road is Wide

**Author's Note:**

> I am...a little disgusted at how often I think about everyone coming back together next season. So all that energy comes out like this. Do I feel like I'm writing the same thing over and over and over? Absolutely.

He was coming home.

It was a thought that thundered in her brain endlessly throughout the turn it would take him to reach Winterfell. Those were the first words that fluttered to mind when she woke, it was the only thing that helped her get to sleep.

He was coming home.

 The Long Night had ended with Jon victorious. Daenerys barely made it out alive, and she lost Rhaegal to the Night King before Jon took his head. Rumors of the things that had happened there trickled down from Beyond the Wall. Free Folk wandered in, looking for food and shelter from the Winter winds, and told stories of the White Walkers, of the men who’d fought them back, and of the ones who led them. They said Daenerys had a look colder than Winter, eyes sharper than the devil’s blade. And though Jon was described as having a dark look, they said he was bright. That the men flocked to him, and they spoke of him and his skill with a reverence the likes of which Westeros hadn’t heard of any man.

It made Sansa shudder to think what he had done to inspire such veneration.

She’d heard some of the story from the man himself. They’d spoken briefly when the troops rested and supplied themselves at Winterfell. He’d been overjoyed to see Bran and Arya so well, and Sansa had soaked up as much of his presence as she could, just to fortify herself. Their stay was short, for Cersei Lannister remained in the South and Daenerys demanded the North’s support in her claim. Not just with words, but the entirety of their army. Sansa decided quickly that she liked and admired the Dragon Queen. Rumor had it that they two shared a good many experiences. Sansa promised to keep up a correspondence with her once all was settled.

The relationship between Daenerys and Jon was…strained. It was obvious to anyone that there was some affection between them, but Jon kept her at a distance, almost to the point of rudeness in Sansa’s opinion. There didn’t seem to be much accounting for it. Perhaps a lover’s spat? At that point in time, Sansa couldn’t say, but she also didn’t care.

Jon supped with his siblings the night before they left. But long before the fire slowed to embers, Bran requested to be sent back to his own chambers to contemplate and Arya slipped away. She claimed she was tired, but Sansa knew there was a blue-eyed smith probably waiting for her in some corner or tower. Arya had told her all about Gendry Waters and their journey on the Road.

So, once again, it was just her and Jon. Sansa and Jon, staring down a dying fire and contemplating the madness to come.

“You’re going with her, then?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer. His response was a mere nod, and he didn’t look at her. So Sansa reached over to grab his hand, tugging it to tug his attention to her. He could be so brooding sometimes.

“I need you to be careful,” she said pointedly, looking him square in the eye so he wouldn’t misunderstand her. Here she was telling the man who’d killed the king of the undead to be _careful_ in King’s Landing. Any other man would have scoffed at her, mocked her for her fears, but Jon was not that sort of man. He’d come to value her experiences, to understand exactly upon what those fears were founded. King’s Landing was a cesspool for vultures, for the worst of humanity. They flocked there to suck marrow from the powerful, to take their pound of flesh. She’d not have him so damaged. Not for anything. If only she could express to him the importance, impress upon him just what kind of danger he would encounter. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Something flashed in his eyes, something sharp and fierce that she didn’t understand.

“Sansa…” he let out a long breath, “Have you spoken to Bran?”

She tilted her head, confused, for it was an odd question. “About what?”

He kept his eyes focused on her, not answering. Surprisingly, Sansa wasn’t put off by the intensity of his gaze on her. With Jon, there was no mask. He knew what she was, what she could do, what she would do. There was no reason to hide from him, not now. So, she looked back, and saw a man tired and confused. There was pain there that she couldn’t comprehend. Sansa couldn’t help but reach a hand out to his face, stroking down the roughness of his beard. He leaned into the touch and finally looked away from her.

“Can I stay here with you tonight?”

The question had shocked her more than words could express. They had slept in the same bed occasionally as children, when the winds howled and waked their childish fears. Sansa and Arya had quite often dashed to boys’ rooms and clambered under the furs with them. And he’d been gone for so long. So Sansa, nodded, and stood to prepare for sleep.

That night had been quiet, restful. She’d curled up against his side, let him hold her, let herself comfort him. But then, she could only wonder why he was there with her instead of taking what he needed with Daenerys. He seemed much sadder, much more tired than she’d ever seen him. She kept her thoughts to herself.

The next morning, Sansa woke to find him looking at her, intently, as he had the night previous. He didn’t say anything, just studied her face, eyes wide and searching. Sansa almost asked him what was wrong, but then he kissed her forehead, and was gone.

The army left before midday, Daenerys in the sky with Drogon. It made for an impressive display. Sansa hadn’t seen them off, but remained in her solar, watching. Still, Jon knew just where to look for her, and met her gaze easily. She lifted her hand, just as she’d done when he left the first time. He merely nodded, that crease in his brow deeper than she’d ever seen it.

For the next several months, Sansa had worried over him. Constantly. He rarely had an opportunity to write, and when he did they were short missives. Promises, actually. That they would end this war soon. That he would return home soon.

Then word came that Cersei Lannister was dead. Daenerys Targaryen sat on the Iron Throne, though she was quite weak. She’d been badly injured during battle, and there was a chance she might not survive. It was feared the Tyrells or Martells would attempt to take the Throne from her. But a solution quickly presented itself. Daenerys would marry the heir to Sunspear, thereby protecting her interests in the South.

No one was more surprised than Sansa. She had long suspected that Daenerys would claim Jon and keep him with her. There were some who imagined that this alleged engagement was a ploy to keep the South pacified until the queen regained her strength. They believed she would revoke her offer and then make an offer to Jon, a substantially more powerful and attractive consort than an unknown Martell cousin. Sansa thought it was only logical.

Evidently, Jon disagreed. He’d written shortly after gossip reached Winterfell. He would stay only long enough to see Daenerys well, and then he was returning home. He wouldn’t stay for any coronation or wedding, he wanted only to be home. With her. With Bran and Arya. Their pack together again. When she brought this news to Bran and Arya, they were overjoyed. As overjoyed as Bran could manage to be in his state. Then he’d reached for Sansa’s and Arya’s hands and told them the truth. Or rather, showed them the truth. Jon was not Ned Stark’s son. He was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen. He was the son of Lyanna Stark.

He was the rightful heir to Iron Throne.

Jon had known this for some time. Bran had revealed it to him in a dream during the Long Night. Only Daenerys knew. Jon had given up his claim, apparently, and asked only that he be allowed to return to Winterfell. He’d given her his word, he would bend the knee to her, but he was not beholden to her.

So he was coming _home_.


	2. Waters Run on Either Side

Sansa was in the middle of reviewing the house expenses., which were extensive. It was a balancing act of making sure that everyone got what they needed without sinking their budget. The whole thing was tedious, and she’d been doing it alone for so many months that it was honestly becoming familiar. A comfort tedium.

A tedium which shattered when the horns blew.

Travelers.

Sansa dropped her quill and ran for the battlements, not quite sure what she was hoping to see, but very much aware of her guards’ bewilderment. She rushed there anyway, gripping the edge, her gaze sweeping the horizon. There. She could see the bulk of their men just in front of the trees. They were crossing a valley, putting most of them out of sight. She couldn’t make out face, couldn’t identify anyone in particular. Except…except that a dozen or so men rode out ahead, faster than the rest. And she didn’t need a glass to recognize that cloak. The fur stood out, glowing a deep reddish gold among the black. At that pace…

Sansa flew through the corridors, shouted to a servant to tell Arya to fetch Bran. She immediately found her steward, giving him instructions on what to prepare and collect for the influx of men to care for. She made specific requests for the lord’s chambers, especially where Ghost was concerned. She wanted to be sure the room was ready and comfortable as it could be. Then she quickly enumerated what supplies needed to be sent to Wintertown, what needed to remain in the Keep, and how she expected to accommodate everyone. After a day or two, most of the men would return to their homes. Hopefully Daenerys would be generous in sending grain to replenish their stores. All was left to do was wait.

But she didn’t have to wait for very long.

She stood on the outer landing of the Keep, and turned when the gates opened and the horns sounded, to see him ride through. She could barely make out his face, but she was so focused on it that she hardly noticed that she was moving for the stairs. Jon rode into the courtyard, rearing Greystar to such a hard stop that he went up on his back legs, spinning round to a full stop. He dismounted, looking for her on the landing, tracking where she could be, only for her to call out his name from where she was frozen in place. Around him, his men were bringing their own steeds to much gentler stops, dismounting, but Jon’s gaze was locked on Sansa.

Without looking, he handed his reins off to a stable hand, pulled off his gloves and dropped them where he stood. Sansa moved down the stairs, heart pounding, feeling sick to her stomach. It was almost exactly like their reunion at Castle Black, both of them broken and world weary. Just the sight of him had given her more relief than she’d felt in years, and it was the same now. They were moving to each other before she realized it. Quick steps and outstretched arms. He caught her up and lifted, just as he had before, just as he probably always would. She buried her face in his hair, tightened her arms around his neck. It had only been a few turns since she’d seen him, and yet it had felt like years waiting.

He set her back to her feet, hands coming to cup her face. He was looking her over for signs of injury or exhaustion, she knew.

“You should have sent a raven ahead,” she scolded, her voice light, tone not matching her words for strength. Jon’s doleful eyes flicked up to hers briefly before he continued his cursory examination of her person, but she stopped him by grabbing his hands up in hers. “I’m well, Jon, I promise.”

That got his attention back to her, and he locked onto her, thumbs brushing along her cheekbones. He’d done this before too, looked at her this intensely, like he was seeing ghosts. It didn’t feel that way this time. He just looked relieved.

“Missed you,” he murmured. Sansa nodded and pulled him in for another hug, letting herself feel his breath and his pulse, reassuring herself that he was well. He felt the press of his lips to the side of her head, felt him press his nose there. Sansa decided then and there not to think on their fraught dynamic; she didn’t want to think about everything before or anything that would come next. She wasn’t even really thinking about who was watching them now. Who gave a damn? It was Winter, the White Walkers were vanquished, and a Targaryen once again sat on the Iron Throne. Who would dare to judge them?

But soon they were crowded with people, including Bran and Arya, waiting to greet the King. Jon released Sansa long enough to hug Arya tightly and ruffled Bran’s hair. Then he was pulling her arm through his and not letting her get more than a few paces away from him. She wondered at it a little, but luckily everyone was distracted when her steward announced that food was ready in the Hall for everyone. Arya didn’t wait for Sansa and Jon, she wheeled Bran in Gendry’s direction with a silly grin on her face that was evenly matched on the Baratheon bastard’s face. Sansa mentally censured herself. Evidently, Gendry Waters was a recurring theme in her sister’s life, and she would have to define him with new terms. She started to lead him toward the Hall, but Jon held fast. Sansa wasn’t strong enough to move him even a little, which made her scowl.

“Yeees?” she said with all the sarcasm she could muster as she turned, brows raised at his behavior. She softened at the look on his face, however, and she brought her other hand up to his arm. “What do you need?”

“Just some quiet,” he told her, lips spread thin. He looked warily at those around him, and moved her deftly out of the way of a group of soldiers on their way into the Hall.

“I’ll have Erron send some food to your chambers, then.” She moved to go find the steward, but his grip on her tightened reflexively. Sansa let her eyes drift over their clasped arms and then flicked them up to his harrowed expression. “For both of us?” she asked gently. His only response was a nod, so she responded in kind. Instead of going to find Erron herself, she shouted over to one of the guards, giving him her message.

They made their way to the lord’s chambers silently. Every time Sansa looked over at Jon, his face remained plagued by whatever was haunting him. She wanted to smooth those worried lines from his face, bring back the smiles Arya had inspired. She wanted to know what caused him all this fretting. Once she had him in his room, she started helping him remove his cloak and armor, setting the pieces aside. Jon stood their almost uselessly, watching her. She helped him remove his boots as well, and then brought over the basin of water, soap, and cloth she’d requested. As he sat, Sansa washed his face and neck, drying the dampness before it could drip, and then set about washing his feet. It was something she’d seen her mother do for her father once after he’d returned from a long journey. The memory had come to her in a flash only a few days previous. Once finished, she replaced his stockings and put his softer slippers on his feet to keep off the cold.

She ignored the way he watched her, ignored her silence. Because then she was moving him to a more comfortable chair and wrapping a fur around his shoulders. Right then, their food arrived, and so she helped Erron arrange it and poured out wine for him to drink. She sent Erron away with pretty words and smile, and immediately went to sit at Jon’s side.

Even though she focused on her food, Jon didn’t immediately begin eating. She sighed.

“You should eat, Jon.” There was some small part of her that hated how much she sounded like her mother in that moment. If only because Jon was so accustomed to hearing that scolding voice in his ear. She didn’t want to be a constant reminder of that pain. Maybe she was anyway. When he didn’t answer her, she looked up at him, concerned.

He looked close to pained.

“How are you so capable?” he asked with a rueful shake of his head. “How is it that you’re always surprising me?”

“I don’t really have an answer for that,” Sansa confessed, slowly. His meaning was not clear. “I haven’t always been capable. I wouldn’t say that I was capable of anything before returning home.”

He was shaking his head at her again. Baffling.

He picked up his fork and they resumed their silence, eating what they had in front of them. Sansa had to admit that she hadn’t been looking forward to another dinner among a crowd of people. She craved time alone, away from the noise and the demands on her time and energy. She couldn’t imagine how Jon felt about such things; his responsibilities and burdens weighed a great deal more than hers. When he was finished, he set down his things neatly and folded his hands in his lap.

“Have you spoken to Bran?” he asked her quietly. And this time, there was no escaping his meaning. So, she nodded.

“Jon—” He held up a hand to stop her. Annoying.

“My intention is to relinquish my claim on Winterfell to you—”

“You _cannot_ be serious!”

“And, if you choose, remain here to serve in your guard,” he finished.

“That is absolutely ridiculous and I won’t hear of it.”

“ _Sansa_ ,” he pleaded pathetically. She wanted to stamp her foot and scream.

“No! You listen to me, Jon Snow! I don’t give a damn who your parents are, but what I do know is that you _are_ a Stark. A trueborn Stark. I can’t manage the North alone, I just can’t, and I refuse to remarry if I don’t have to. That leaves it to you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly well!” she snapped, “You’re a self-sacrificing idiot who wants to be left in peace. I _know_ that.” She inhaled sharply, trying to get a handle on her temper. “But I need you here. I need you to help me do this as Father would have wanted it done.” He was listing away from her, distressed at his mentioning. “Because like it or not, Ned Stark raised you as his son, and you know the North and its people better than anyone.” Sansa reached out for his hand again, gaining all of his attention. “ _Nothing_ has to change.”

Jon looked stricken by that statement, though he didn’t pull away.

“If I stay,” he croaked out, “it will have to.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, “Explain.”

His look went blank, and Sansa almost didn’t know him anymore. Very little could inspire obscuration of feeling in him. That was something she had always taken comfort in, valued, a trait prized above all else in him. Jon Snow could not disconnect his face from his feelings. So many men in Sansa’s life, so many women too, wore masks. Jon could not. When he felt something, that feeling etched itself along the lines of his face. Sansa nearly panicked at this schooled expression; something the dragon queen had taught him surely.

“Don’t do that to me,” she whispered, “Don’t shut me out.

Jon inhaled, the new breath filling and relaxing his face, not that she had long to examine.

“One of the conditions of my returning here was that you and I have to marry.”

Sansa froze for only a moment, but it was long enough for him to see. Jon crumpled and, as usual, Sansa caught him. She knelt before him, hands on his neck to get him to look at her. Jon hooked his hands on her arms, holding her there, in place. She felt him shaking, felt the way he held himself so tensely.

“ _Jon_ —”

“It’s spite,” he told her brokenly. “She wanted me to stay. I didn’t. I didn’t want to stay there, not when everything I hold dear…not when everything I love is here.”

Sansa brought his head forward, just close enough for her to press a long kiss to his forehead.

“Then we’ll do it,” she whispered back. Still close, he lifted his eyes to hers, looking hopeful and terrified at the same time. Sansa nodded reassuringly, “Bran’s word is law here. The lords trust him. He shall make the announcement, and we will tell them the truth. You are marrying me to stay, to protect the North, to prevent her interference with our way of life.” The longer she spoke, the more he shook his head.

“You shouldn’t have to—”

“I _want_ to. Seven hells, Jon, did I not just say that I need you here? It protects us both. It keeps us home.” He dropped his forehead to hers. “I’ll take care of you. Everything else is just…details.” He let out a shaky breath.

“We’ll take care of each other,” he amended.

Just then, Arya slipped into the room. She was still attempting to sneak into rooms without Sansa being aware. It was a challenge now, as Sansa was so accustomed to her comings and goings. She reached out a hand to her sister, beckoning her to their embrace. Arya obliged, bringing a stool in order to sit comfortably close to both of them. Jon laid a heavy hand on her neck and shoulder, mussing her hair as he’d done when they were children. Sansa’s heart almost shattered watching Arya lean into it.

“What’s happening?” she asked baldly. “You look miserable.”

Jon was shaking his head again, ready to pull away, but Sansa wouldn’t let him.

“Daenerys is a lunatic,” she informed Arya.

“Is this new information?” Arya asked with no small amount of snark. It was enough to make Jon let out a huff of laughter through his nose.

“Jon and I are going to marry, to keep us all together.”

Sansa knew Arya was experiencing a flurry of thoughts and emotions. Ever since her return, she’d been much calmer, more precise in her words, less likely to explode due to upset. But you could see her thoughts in those luminous eyes of hers, watch the progression of her feelings. Arya was No One to the world, but she removed the mask for Sansa.

“Fine. Good. Where do we start?”

Sansa smiled, some pride fluttering in her chest, but Jon was gaping incredulously at Arya. She was not the girl he remembered, of course. Arya Stark was a worldly woman, full grown, and knowledgeable of life’s disappointments. Sansa trusted her with everything.

“We need to make an announcement regarding Jon’s heritage, through Bran. There will need to be a ceremony for the benefits of the lords and the smallfolk, but it will have to be modest. We simply don’t have the resources to waste on some elaborate celebration.”

Arya nodded shortly, “Bran’s thoughts will need reinforcement.”

“Sam,” Jon croaked out, still wide eyed. “Sam Tarly has the records of my parents’ marriage.” Sansa turned her head back to him. “They were wed before I was born. He told me after Bran sent me that dream.” Sansa nodded, reaching to smooth the line between his brows.

“Good. A paper trail will give it more credence and legitimize Jon’s claim in the North. We should start with rumors from the South.”

“How—?” Jon started.

Arya rolled her eyes, “I’ll forge them _of course_.”

 “As it is everyone believes that Daenerys threw you over for a better offer than a lord’s bastard.” Jon scowled at Sansa. “It’s the truth. So, we need to create favorable circumstances. Arya’s whispers will have them wondering about your intentions here. We make the announcement, send ravens to all the lords, and immediately announce our engagement. No one to question. No one to threaten. Controlled.”

Jon snorted, “You sound like politicians.”

“I am,” Sansa said at the same time Arya said, “She is.” They looked at each other, quirking up smiles before looking back at their brother. He looked baffled and overwhelmed, and Sansa felt immensely sorry for him. But they were distracted by a knock at the door. Jon bid them enter. It was Sandor Clegane who came through.

“The fuck is going on in here?” he growled out,

“Family business,” Jon snapped irritably, “What do you want, Clegane?”

The Hound eyed the three Starks warily, but Sansa had softened at the sight of him. He’d helped to protect her in King’s Landing, helped protect Arya on her journey North, and she’d fought alongside Jon at the Wall and in the South. He’d taken up Stark colors, swearing himself to their house, without a thought to his old bitterness.

“Glover’s getting into it with the Free Folk again,” he told Jon gravely. “Thought you’d want to know in case that fucking ginger guts the Glover whelp.”

“ _Clegane_ ,” Jon scowled, nodding his head at his sisters. Arya scoffed when the Hound snorted.

“They know me well enough, Snow. Not about to curb my tongue for the likes of them.”

Jon was about to protest, when Sansa put a hand to his arm and stood. “It’s good to see you well, ser.” She said it with a smile and fond tilt of her head. She saw the faint flush in his cheeks, the awkwardness of his stance. He cleared his throat. So, Sansa took pity on him. “How is Lady Brienne? I miss having her here.”

He snorted, “Probably shacked up with the Goldenhand in Tarth by now.” He lifted his eyes to her, smirking. “I heard you fed your husband to hounds.”

She shrugged, “It seemed fitting.”

“And you killed Baelish?”

Arya simply tilted her head blankly, “Among others.”

The Hound chortled. “Well my work is done here! It’s your turn, Snow, Gods help you.”

Jon was rolling his eyes at the Stark girls’ preening under the eyes of their unsung mentor.

“Good night, Clegane.”

“Night, my lord. She-wolves,” he said, nodding at the women. And then he was gone.

“That man…” Jon started, irritated by the disruption.

“Is an arse,” the Stark girls finish.

Jon looked at them both with no small amount of incredulity, “Others take me. I think I prefer it when the two of you fight. This agreement…” he shook his head, “Very strange.”


	3. My Shadow Went with Fading Light

Sansa and Arya frequently walked the battlements together. It was soothing and habitual; they were able to discuss their thoughts, their plans, and even their feelings about everything that was going on. Without Baelish inhibiting their relationship, they were freer to communicate. Now the North knew: one did not come between the Stark sisters. And the North remembers. No one bothered them there, except maybe Erron. Sansa would send her guards away. Arya was more than adequate protection, though Sansa had felt little need for protection now that Baelish was dead and Jon returned home.

During these walks, Arya spoke to her of the rumor mill, what her friends in the wind whispered to her. Sansa never asked who these friends were, or how Arya had come about them. But she knew of Varys’ methods, and could only wonder if this was more of the same. She called them her “little cats,” with a great deal of affection. Sansa could imagine her sister, seeing to the needs of a group of fresh faced warrior girls taught to spy and cut throats. Well, Sansa wanted that for her anyway.

That morning, they talked of anything and everything they could think of just to avoid the one topic neither had the heart to discuss. Arya preferred to talk of men only when they were discussing murder. Sansa preferred to think of them as pieces on a cyvasse board with wants which could be provided as incentive for them to move without resistance. For the Stark sisters, Jon was another matter altogether.

They were quiet for a long moment after discussing what they were going to do about Glover’s son. He was beyond disrespectful, a dog off his leash. If he kept running his mouth and inciting violence with the Free Folk, he was going to cause a _problem_. And Sansa was in no mood for extraneous _problems_. Arya’s solutions were typically violent, but in this case, it was a rather elegant solution. They were going to bring Gawen to Winterfell, he would serve as Jon’s squire. And then they would find him a suitable wife…from among the Free Folk. Sansa did worry about his reaction, that he would try to hurt the girl, be rough with her. Arya laughed it off.

“When I say _suitable_ , I mean someone who can rip his balls off and shove them up his arse.”

As she said before. Violent.

Sansa came to a stop where they could overlook the Wood. They stood quietly for some time, watching and listening.

“We need to discuss what to do about Jon.”

“I know.”

“This marriage—”

“I already agreed. It _is_ the best solution.”

Arya rubbed her brow, looking more tired than Sansa had seen her in some time. Jon’s return had been hard on her, despite all indications otherwise. They were all much changed, but Arya’s adjustment was the hardest. Sansa did what she could for her, gave her whatever she wanted, whatever she needed. Her sister had been alone too long, had suffered the elements alone for too long. So Sansa was building her the shelter she needed, piece by piece, and was constructing her safe haven.

“We can’t know what influence she has over him.”

“Do you honestly think him capable?” Sansa snapped in disbelief. Arya, of all people?

“Yes! Sansa, yes, I do! Robb was the man Father tried so hard to be. Overtly noble, honest to the point of madness, someone who tried to do the right thing all of the time. Jon is the man Father actually was! Jon watches. He _learns_ and he adapts. He is not the pretty stuff of your childhood fantasies, he’s a killer just like the rest of them. A politician, a piece in the game. Do you honestly believe he hasn’t thought about what this new name means for him?” She scoffed with a violent shake of her head. “How can we be sure, absolutely sure, that he isn’t set on the South? That he hasn’t returned here just to regain his strength, put himself in the proper position, until Daenerys in comfortable, feeling safe? He has the name. He has the North. Even the Southroners adore him. They sing his praises, they think him their savior. It’s like you said, taking heads, burning people, is satisfying, but it doesn’t inspire people. It makes them afraid. If Daenerys steps out of line even once…”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this—”

“How long, Sansa? How long until they call for him? What man have you seen resist that call? Not even our father could do it!”

Sansa shuddered, closing her eyes against the harshness of Arya’s thoughts. They were her own thoughts and fears reflected back at her. Damn Arya for seeing her so clearly! Damn her for voicing what Sansa had tried to keep hidden. Sansa opened her eyes with the deepest inhalation she could muster. The evils and failings of men were not unknown to her. She just wished Arya didn’t see her so plainly.

Her throat felt tight, thick with sadness, “Jon is not Father.”

“No?” Arya snorted. “Do you think his affair with Daenerys was genuine?”

“I think it was desperate.”

“And not so far off from the life Father claimed to have lived. Left home for a war that wasn’t his own, had an affair, brought home his shame and tried to live a wholesome life only to go back South. Sound familiar?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Yes, yes it is. And we need to be absolutely certain that he isn’t running at the first opportunity.”

Sansa’s heart crushed in on itself. This was an old fear, a fear that Sansa lived with constantly in those first turns with him. She’d just kept waiting. Waiting for him to leave. Waiting for him to pawn her off on someone else. Waiting for him to sell her for his own needs, just as all the others had. But he didn’t. When he left, he left the North to her, publicly. He’d promised to return and he did. He’d given back everything she had lost, given her something to keep fighting for, something she could live by. And now it was her turn. It was her turn to shine that same light for him, and for Arya. To bring them both home for good.

“Arya,” Sansa said gently and reached for her hand. Arya rolled her eyes, but gave it over. “We won’t lose him.”

She sniffed sharply, eyes watery, “You can’t promise that.”

“You won’t lose me,” Sansa offered, “I can promise that. We don’t ever have to be apart again.”

Arya stepped closer, putting her arms around Sansa’s waist, let herself be held and comforted for once. It was not a posture Arya took very often. Sansa ran a hand through her hair, rubbed her back, like Mother always had when she was distressed. As child, Arya just _felt_ too much, and all of those feelings would come bubbling to the surface, usually violently. Age and training couldn’t change the core of you, not to Sansa’s mind.

“I’ll kill him before I let him leave again,” Arya grumbled into her cloak. Sansa hummed, taking that statement quite seriously. Vicious little beast, her sister was, and not disingenuous in the least.

“Let me handle, Jon,” she answered, “You focus on your little cats, on your training. I’ll take care of you.”

Sansa would be the light that led her loved ones home, once and for all. The pack would stay together.


	4. Stretching Out Toward the Night

“Don’t turn this around on me,” Jon snapped.

Sansa whirled in place, outraged, “Turn it around? Turn it around from where?”

“You know damn well what I mean, Sansa! That play the fool bit doesn’t work on me anymore.”

She jabbed him in the chest, “You pig-headed, selfish, narcissistic—they’re gone.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped in relief even as he rubbed at the place she’d jabbed. This play acting was bordering on ridiculous, but Arya’s little cats indicated that it was necessary. Sansa understood all too well the game that they were playing; they both had to pretend to be angry and bickering about their impending marriage, for the benefit of the lords and Daenerys. According to Arya, she was still sulking over Jon’s loss, and considered it a fit punishment, banishing him to the North to marry a woman he considered his sister. Sansa didn’t want her to have any indication that Jon saw it otherwise. Hence, the semi-public arguments about absolutely nothing. Sure, they bickered and fought often enough. Neither of them knew what it meant to rule during peacetimes, and it was a balancing act. Sansa was constantly reminding him of what he owed to the Northmen, and Jon would bandy back what they owed Daenerys. Even the mention of her name had Sansa seeing red, and Jon was sick unto death of being reminded of his responsibilities.

“You know, you could go easy on the jabbing,” he grumbled, “Eventually, it’s going to bruise.”

“ _Baby_.”

He scoffed, “I was _murdered_ a year ago, I maintain the right to complain as I choose.”

“Eventually, that argument will dry out.”

“I’ll milk it til then,” he shot back with a shrug. That just had her scowling. They were leaving the Hall after hearing petitions. Sansa wanted to stretch her legs, and Jon was doing his best to avoid the steward for as long as possible. Still annoyed, she slipped her arm through his.

“Call Ghost for me?” There were days when she missed Lady terribly. Ghost’s presence had the ability to soothe her. She felt Jon stiffen next to her, his eyes shutting briefly, which meant he was half-warging into the direwolf. It made Sansa unreasonably jealous. Both Bran and Jon had these abilities, and there was no telling if Arya did, but she claimed that she had wolf dreams. Sansa didn’t. She dreamt of snow, of walls too high to climb or breach. She dreamt of the parents lost to her.

“He’ll find us,” Jon assured her. He steered her towards the godswood. It was one of the few places the Starks had any privacy anymore. Sansa often found her siblings there, attempting to escape the noise. They made their way quietly, each immersed in daydreams of childhood games, of faces they would never see again.

They entered the godswood just as Ghost came trotting to their side. He nudged against Jon’s outstretched hand, but placed himself beside Sansa, ever the lookout. Sansa never could be certain if Ghost was naturally protective of Starks, or if Jon liked keeping his eye on them. She supposed it didn’t matter.

The silence of the wood was deafening. Jon guided her along the edge of the pool, to the weirwood which loomed above them. This was her father’s favorite place in the whole of the world. He’d often told them stories of how he and his brother and sister had played here as children. It was one of the few places she felt close to him anymore. Jon confessed that he felt the same. Sansa left his side to go touch the tree, to feel that thrum of energy Bran was so tapped into now that he was the Three-Eyed Raven.

“Do you think he’s watching us?” she asked him, staring up into the blood red leaves. There wasn’t much sunlight to speak of; the days remained cloudy and dark. The leaves were beautiful all the same; she’d never seen a red to match it. Not even Lannister or Targaryen red. She thought once that these trees soaked up the blood from the land, transformed it into something beautiful. Pure. So unlike the life she’d lived. Ghost ran off into the trees, probably keeping them within sight, but removing himself.

“I prefer to err on the side of assuming Bran is always watching me, and behave accordingly.”

Sansa’s laughter gushed out of her. She dropped her hand from the tree and turned to look at him. His eyes. The lines in his brow. The way he stood, the way he held himself.

“I meant Father,” she amended with a smile. But the amusement dropped from his face, and Sansa was sorry to have said it. He shrugged.

“I think the dead are at peace, and have very little use for the living.”

Sansa sighed. “This will be the third wedding of mine that they have missed. I can’t help but think on them.”

He nodded, holding out a hand to help her down from the gnarled roots of the tree. She took it and deftly navigated the terrain to stand by him again.

“I thought much the same when I went to Dragonstone. When we marched North of the Wall. He was…always in my thoughts, and yet I never truly saw him as he was.” He rolled his shoulders again. “Just a man trying to keep too many promises. Who is he to judge us now?” Jon looked back at her, his thumb drifting over her chin. Sansa let out a shaky breath and leaned into his side.

“Strange to hear that from you. Robb, maybe, but not you. You worshipped him.”

Jon grunted and slid an arm around her waist to pull her closer. Their gazes wandered to the black pool before them, a glossy even surface which never reflected back the truth. Starks of old claimed that they’d seen visions in the pool, visions of things no man should ever know. Sandor claimed he’d seen visions of her in the fire of the Red Religion’s acolytes. Bran was a greenseer and saw everything. And yet, Sansa saw nothing. She was gifted with nothing. The world had given her everything, taken it away, and left more nothingness in its place. She’d fought so hard, for so long just to get home, and still she felt like an intruder in her mother’s chambers.

“He left you alone,” Jon said quietly. His words were so soft and so sad that Sansa almost chose not to hear them. “He was a fool and left you and Arya alone in the world with no one to protect you. I never understood it. What difference did any of it make?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa answered quickly, turning into him, “I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Jon cleared his throat, “We should get back. Clegane will come looking for you.” He started to move, but an ounce of resistance from Sansa kept him there. He turned his brown eyes on her, confused.

“What’s bothering you? Truly? Tell me.”

“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” But then she tilted her head skeptically and he caved. “You’re not going to like it.” She had to take a couple of deep breaths and count to ten to keep from shouting at him. He scowled. “We,” he gestured between them, “Will have to consummate this marriage. Especially since so many of the lords will attend.”

She blinked quickly, “And the thought is…repulsive?”

“Sansa.”

“Jon.”

They stared each other down, but as usual, Sansa won because Jon was always trying to give her what she wanted.

“We’ve discussed Bolton,” he started.

She sniffed, “Yes, we have.” His face crumpled a bit, brow furrowing tightly in his own anxiety about the subject. And Sansa? She was half annoyed and half pleased. Yes, he was being protective and kind, and it was sweet of him to worry, but she didn’t need that protection from him. “And I thought we agreed that I wouldn’t interfere and you would stop protecting me.”

“I believe we said _try_  to.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Jon.”

“And you don’t understand what I mean.”

Sansa felt her stomach twinge in irritation. _Men_. So, she arched a brow, waiting for his explanation.

“There was a woman,” he told her, “A woman I came across in Flea Bottom after Cersei was killed. She was…she’d been cornered by some of the Lannisters’ men. One of them was trying to…he nearly succeeded except that she fought back. Screamed. Ripped the tongue from his mouth.” Sansa swallowed back a gag. “And then she went after the next one, gouged out his eyes. It took three of my men to secure her. An hour to calm her down. She told me…she told me her husband had sold her to a Lannister man. She told me some of the things he did to her. Told me she’d kill any man that tried to touch her again. I believed her.” His hand squeezed tighter around hers, his other sliding soothingly up and down her back. “I’m not afraid of my hurting you because I wouldn’t.” He opened and closed his mouth, sighing heavily now that he was lost for words. “I’m—”

“Afraid of what his cruelty has done to me.” Sansa wanted to jerk herself way, get space again, but he didn’t let her. “Am I too broken for you, then?”

“ _Fuck_ no.”

She shivered at the intensity of that sentiment, had to shut her eyes against it. Sometimes Jon felt things too deeply, exuded those feelings too strongly, and Sansa felt helpless against it. His hand came up to cup her head, and he dropped his forehead to her temple.

“Sansa, I want you safe and happy. I’m terrified of ripping open those wounds, of hurting you beyond reason and being incapable of helping you.” Sansa felt the tears stinging at the corners of her eyes, but she couldn’t open them. “I see the way you flinch. I see the way you pull back, stand behind Clegane. I see the panic even if they don’t. I don’t want it to be because of me.”

She let her eyes open at that. “So, prove it.” She angled her head to look at him, hoping her request was obvious, hoping that she wouldn’t have to goad him. Apparently, it was just enough.

Jon dipped his head to kiss her, light and lush presses, not tentative but not forceful. The hand at her neck grazed at the tendrils at her nape. Sansa turned in his arms, so that his arm rested more fully against the small of her back, bracing her to him. Gently, he opened her to him, stroking and inviting her tongue to participate. Sansa’s knees nearly gave out, and she felt the whimper escape her without hearing it. Jon’s reaction was fierce. He tilted his head the other way, giving her more access to his bottom lip, tugging and nipping at hers only to soothe. Sansa’s hands had landed on his chest, groping at the straps of his cloak and tunic, growing a little more and more desperate as he continued the gentle onslaught on her senses. Eventually he pulled back, pressing kisses to the corner of her mouth and cheek. She nearly groaned in her disappointment.

“See?” she whispered, “Keep that up and Ramsay’s ghost doesn’t stand a chance.”

Both arms were around her waist, “I came back for you. I came _home_ for you.”

“I know, Jon, I know.” She brought her hands to his face, kissing him again.

“I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You won’t,” Sansa all but cooed, “I won’t let you.”

He kissed her again, thoroughly, with less hesitation than the first. He nipped with teeth and soothed with his tongue, coaxing her open and encouraging her responses. Sansa gave her weight over to him, reveling in the sturdiness he provided. Jon all but growled into her mouth, nearly lifting her from the ground. _Brave and gentle and strong_. Her father’s words echoed in her head as she kissed him back, meeting his fervor with her own. She smiled into his kisses, feeling that girlish giddiness swell up inside her. By the Seven, she hadn’t felt anything like it since before she’d left home. Before Joffrey and King’s Landing. She’d felt like this so often as a child, felt the magic of a sheltered, innocent life. Jon had just given a piece of that back to her. Who better to keep Sansa than a man raised by her own father? Who better than the man who was most like him?

“All I could do was think of getting back to you,” he said against her lips. “I didn’t even—” They swayed together, slightly, and she pressed a sharp kiss to his lips. “I didn’t know. But everything I was doing…”

“You did what you had to—”

“Everything I did was for you. By the time I—” They crashed together again, his hands sliding up her sides and squeezing. He was unravelling her, thread by thread, layers falling away until he reached her centermost self. Their kisses were teasing and playful, but thorough, and Sansa never wanted to leave that place. Or that feeling. Jon brought them to a stop, nuzzling against her mouth, pressing a kiss to the corner.

“I love you,” he said firmly, looking her square in the eye, “Do you understand me?”

Sansa’s nod was shaky and tears slipped down her cheeks, “Yes. I love you, too. So _much_ , I just—” She shuddered against him and wrapped her arms around his neck so she could hide her face from him.

“ _Nothing_ is taking you from me, Sansa. Nothing. I’ll help you rid the world of your monsters. You just have to let me.” He brought a hand up to stroke her hair, fingers twisting in the long strands. Sansa loved it when her hair was played with, but he probably knew that. Jon knew a lot of things other people didn’t.

“We should get back,” he murmured into her hair, “before we are missed.”

She shook her head gently, hands clenching in his furs. “Not yet.” She breathed in the sharp Northern air; pine and cold and leather. “Just a moment longer.”

Jon held her tighter, quietly agreeing to her terms. Ghost came to them from the trees, budging up against their legs and waiting patiently. Silence reverberated through the wood once more.

And, quite beyond their noticing, as they stood there before the Old Gods, it had begun to snow.


	5. When I Need to Get Home

Jon and Sansa were wed before that very tree a turn later, a dozen lords and their families as witness. They’d refused a ceremony in the Sept, though Jon promised they could have some small presentation to honor her mother’s religion after their guests were gone. It pleased her beyond reason, even if she didn’t pray any longer. Sam Tarly performed the ceremony, Arya gave the bride away. Bran watched from the side, Ghost sat next to his chair, gaze sweeping over the crowd of people. It was a lovely evening, a dusting of snow covering the ground. Sansa was well-pleased with her gown, sewn by herself, and Jon looked as fine as he ever did. The torches of their guests burned brightly, casting shadows on the snow, fracturing it into glittering brightness. Sansa thought it would remind her of her wedding to Ramsay, thought she would cringe and cower. But Jon’s warm gaze was as steady as ever, and that’s what she kept her focus on. The air was startlingly cold, and so Sam didn’t prolong the ceremony more than necessary.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

“Sansa, of the House Stark, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Jon Snow, of the House Targaryen and the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Heir to the Iron Throne. Who gives her?”

“Arya, of the House Stark, who is her sister.”

“Lady Sansa, do you take this man?”

“I take this man.”

They each spoke the words, hands clasped together, his cloak on her shoulders. It was too large for her by half, but it smelled like him, emanated his warmth. Sansa was desperate to feel his lips on hers, as they’d had so little time alone since their guests had arrived. However, Jon was ever aware of their audience, and so he pressed a lovingly reverent kiss to her forehead. She pulled away with a hiked brow and a smirk on her lips, but he only widened his eyes at her teasingly before pulling her arm through his and leading her to receive congratulations from their guests.

Sansa kept tightly to Jon’s side all evening, remembering the bedding ceremony from her second marriage, and how poorly she’d been treated during the feast the night of her first. Not only was Jon a solid presence against her, Ser Davos, Sandor, and Gendry Waters kept a close guard of them both. Word had been spread that there would be no bedding ceremony, but the three men closest to Jon intended to keep it that way no matter what. She was immensely grateful to them. Arya, too, would not be far off. She didn’t like these large gatherings, and stuck to the corners, slipping in and out as needed. Ghost kept his watch of Bran, probably at Jon’s request.

The meal was laid out, toasts were made to Jon’s bravery and honor, to Sansa’s beauty and charm. They hailed their northern wolves, joyous in their drunken celebration.

Then little Lyanna Mormont stood, nearing womanhood, and still sharper than any steel Jon had ever encountered. She lifted her horn to them, solemn and chin tilted up.

“To the Starks!” she shouted over the din, “Long may they reign!”

The implication was lost on no one, but their people cheered all the louder at this pronouncement. Sansa smiled at the girl’s grit, thinking that it would be a good many years before Lyanna agreed to a man even half as worthy as herself. Sansa would do her best in her search. She reached for Jon’s hand, and looked over to him, knowing that he would worry over these much-praised words.

“We’ve brought them through the Long Night, helped rebuild their homes. All she has ever done is take their grain and their men, giving little back. It’s only natural.” Jon nodded, brooking no argument, and lifted her hand to press a kiss there.  

The general din raised itself again, people eating and talking amongst themselves. Jon and Sansa sat slightly removed from the rest. Arya came within Sansa’s line of sight, ever watchful, as she tore bits of bread from a loaf. Arya never ate sitting down in public, said it was too vulnerable, mumbled something about the Freys. Jon caught the direction of his gaze and cleared his throat.

“Something’s been off with her lately,” he muttered, nodding his head at Arya.

“Oh?” Sansa responded, noncommittally. She’d not discussed Arya with Jon at all, certainly not without Arya’s permission. Whatever was between them, was meant to be between them, and Sansa would not intervene for anything in the world. Jon owed Arya reassurances, he owed her the trust she so desperately wanted to have in him.

“She’s been…I don’t know what she’s been. Odd is the best I can come up with.”

“Have you talked to her about it?”

“No.”

“Well there’s your answer.”

“Couldn’t you—?”

“ _No_.”

She deliberately used a tone which would brook no argument. This was her wedding night, even if it was her third, and under absolutely no circumstances was she mediating a solution-less argument between Jon and Arya. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“Let her be, for now. You can speak with her later.”

He chuckled lowly, his close-lipped smile making her flush, “Wanting me to yourself, then?”

“Shut up,” she laughed, leaning more heavily into his side.

“There is absolutely nothing keeping us in this room right now.”

“Tradition? Propriety?”

“Horseshit, all of it.”

That made her laugh outright, fully flushed. Sansa relented, but only because she didn’t feel the need to prove anything to these people. She wanted privacy, to be away from prying eyes, to help Jon dismantle the mask that had been so firmly in place since their guests arrived. He was impatient, and she could feel it thrumming under the surface. And she was so very tempted to tap into that energy.

Jon stood, inviting their guests to enjoy themselves and what was offered. He also announced that they would be retiring for the night, causing a raucous response. Jon could only roll his eyes and hold his hand out to Sansa, who took it, trying very hard not to laugh at his irritation. Some of the men, a little more drunk than was strictly necessary, were making their way toward the head table. But Jon had simply to look to Davos, who called to his men to flank their mistress. No one was touching Sansa Stark, no one except her husband.

The men made sure no one followed them, keeping watch just outside the Hall until they were safely back in the Keep. Then they were alone, just them two once more. He swept her into the room, quickly shutting the door behind them and crowding her up against it. Sansa hummed as he ducked to kiss up along her jaw and back to her ear. She clutched at his shoulders, and slid her hands down to undo the clasps of his cloak, undo the laces of his tunic. His hands were too busy grabbing her up to him, feeling the length of her. She quickly undid her own straps and laces, leaning in to kiss him, and pulling back only to disrobe herself only for him to yank her back.

As their clothing dropped and he kissed her breathless, she navigated them closer to the bed. Once she was fully naked, Jon picked her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Jon turned them, walking the last distance to the bed, and lowered her down. She whined a little during the moments of lost contact, but he was quickly covering her, blanketing her body with his. He showered kisses on her face and neck, ducking down to her chest. Sansa let herself enjoy it for the moment, while it would last, moving her feet up and down his calves. She gasped out his name.

“Mhhhmm?”

She writhed underneath him, pushing up. She’d never experience this part before, never experienced her own needs with no fear. Jon’s weight didn’t evoke Ramsay Bolton because Ramsay had never lied down with her, never kissed her like this. She’d never faced him while he…did what he did. And he’d certainly never trailed hot kisses down the length of her until he reached her thighs. Jon nuzzled against the inside of her legs, lightly bit at the skin there, and then he pressed a long kiss between her legs.

Sansa nearly squealed.

“I thought we could start here,” he said against her flesh, eyes flashing up at her. Sansa flushed near head to toe, squirming under the intensity of his gaze. “I tend to prefer it,” he said, pressing his nose between her folds, “and I imagine you’ve never had it.”

“No…” she answered breathlessly. Jon pressed a lingering kiss to her mound, and then hiked her legs over his shoulders.

“Allow me to oblige.”

And Seven hells did he _oblige_. Sansa never felt anything like it, never felt so needy or desperate for anything in her life. He was thorough and attentive, testing different spots and waiting for her reactions. He was slow and measured, but gentle. Then he picked up the pace, tonguing her in a sensitive spot as he slipped a finger inside her. It went in easily, no resistance as he tested her. Sansa arched into him, startled but curious. It was hard to think after that because he stroked and licked her until the sharpness at the base of her spine grew intolerable. It felt like every muscle in her body contracted to the point of pain and there was a sudden release, hot fluid through her veins, her hips bucking out of her control even as his hands held her down. She screamed.

“Jon,” she was reaching for him, “Jon?” He was up and over her immediately, kissing her soundly, bracketing her head with his forearms. His hands were wrecking her hair, but she didn’t care. She wrapped her arms around his neck, massaging his lips and coaxing him to roll over. He obliged, rolling her with him so that she stretched out on top of him. He kissed her lazily, hands going to her head, fingers threading through her hair. He tugged and she keened out. His responding growl made her every nerve light up. She ground her hips down against his hardness, reveling in his moans. Sansa sat back, straddling his hips, and his hands immediately skating up her sides, testing the give of her flesh. They grazed over her breasts, thumbs rubbing her nipples, and brought them down to rest firmly on her hips.

“You tell me,” he growled out, tense but still. She nodded and bent down to kiss him.

“I’m good. Promise.”

She lifted her hips, “ _Slow_ , Sansa, go—fuck!” he bit out as she sank down on him. Sansa went until he was fully inside her, and this was the part she remembered. However, the mechanics of this position…

“What do I…” She felt so full it was hard to breathe, “Jon what do I—?” Without words, Jon guided her hips back and forth, slowly at first, until she could feel it for herself. And she did. It was simple, logical, and it felt so damn good. It felt even better when his hand came to her mound, fingers stroking, urging her on.

“That’s it, love, that’s it.” Jon kept talking to her, kept telling her how perfect she felt against him. She kept her hands on his chest for balance, but was having a hard time concentrating. She felt so close to something, and yet it was too far off, she couldn’t…

Then Jon was jerking her bodily down to him, bracing them chest to chest. The sharp change in angle had her crying out, tears stinging her eyes at how good it was. He kissed her, long and hard, his hands smoothing down her back to curve over her bottom. He rubbed and stretched her cheeks, making her groan into his mouth. Then he was pumping up into her, holding her steady on top of him. His thrusts were slow and measure, and he watched her intently for any sign of discomfort. But Sansa was sick of him being so controlled, of him _protecting_ her. She bent to kiss him, open and wet, and pushed herself back against his thrust. He grunted, tossing his head back in response. Encouraged, she kept at it, meeting him thrust for thrust. But then, she didn’t like how quickly he was leaving her, so she clenched around him, trying to keep him just a little longer each time.

Jon _howled_.

“Let go,” she whispered in his ear, panting, “let go, Jon.”

With that he was arching off the bed, flipping them, and pinning her to the mattress. Sansa wound her limbs around him, giving him more room, their bodies making contact at every imaginable point. He pounded into her, rocking their bodies together smoothly so that he went as deeply as possible every time. He was burning her up inside, making her desperate and needy, like she’d not been before. They found their perfect rhythm, panting and gasping in time.

Sansa shattered fairly quickly after that; the experience amplified and intense compared to her first. Her mouth had opened in a soundless scream, the squeals only coming when she dropped her hands to the sheets to clench. Then Jon was pushing himself off her, and shoving himself sharply into her, grunting each time, until he finished with a grimace pulling at his lips. Sansa watched him for a long moment, sweat dripping down her neck and sternum, and he watched her back, leaning over her and breathing hard. For the first time, she sleepily noticed that she could hardly see the brown of his eyes, his pupils were dilated so wide.

“You all right?” she breathed out, trying to get her breath, and her senses, back. He kept breathing harshly through his nose, but nodded. Sansa shivered and reached for him, wanting the closeness back. He went to her easily, pressing kissing to her face and neck and collarbone as he slipped from her and pulled her body up along his.

They were face to face, their legs tangled together. Jon had a possessive arm around her waist, the other serving as her pillow. Sansa’s hands were trapped between them, stroking what skin she could reach, lazily.

“Tell me,” she said around a yawn, the full force of the day hitting her all at once. He’d left her warm and boneless. Perhaps she’d sleep through the night for once. Jon brushed his nose against hers, and inched forward to lightly kiss her lips.

“In the morning, I promise.”

That was enough for her to close her eyes and let sleep overwhelm her.


	6. You're My Guiding Light

As usual, Sansa roused before the sun rose. But she fought it this time. There was nowhere to be, and no reason to be anywhere. Not to mention, she was spectacularly _warm_ like she hadn’t been for years. Still, her eyes fluttered open because she felt a slight pressure on her hair. So, she opened her eyes more fully to see Jon propped up on his elbow, hand playing with the ends of her hair. He hadn’t noticed she was awake yet, and he looked incredibly sad.

“Jon?” she whispered. Her voice captured all of his attention. He dropped her hair and looked at her, slid down to be at eye level with her. She tracked his movement, brow furrowed with worry. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Stop that.”

His eyes crinkled in his amusement, and he pulled his lips in. Probably trying not to laugh at her. She poked him in the stomach, which did make him chuckle. He rolled onto his back, grabbing up her hand as he went. He drew his thumb along the lines in her palm and up her fingers, still quiet. Sansa knew well enough that sometimes you had to meet Jon’s brooding with your own silence.

“I was thinking on the games we used to play as children,” he confessed softly. Sansa chuckled, scooching over to put her head on his chest, arm curling around his waist. She sighed when she felt his lips press against the top of her head.

“You and Robb always played knights.”

“That we did.”

“And always made Theon the villain.”

His chest rumbled underneath her, “He liked it too much.”

“And you never let Bran and Arya play with you.”

“They always got themselves hurt,” he argued. “And besides, those aren’t the games I was thinking of.”

She stretched her neck to try and look at him, “Then what?”

His hand was in her hair again, twisting the strands around his fingers, letting them slip away only to retrieve them again.

“I was just remembering those songs you always talked us into acting out. Remember? You’d beg and beg and beg until Robb caved and agreed to be your hero. You’d cast everyone in their roles, and then inevitably, Robb would change the story.”

“I _hated_ that.”

Jon laughed outright. “You would get so angry with him, and he would just laugh and tease you and leave you to Arya…”

“Who was the villain or monster.”

“You’d sit there and cry until one of us came to rescue you.”

“ _One of us_ , he says. Theon always took Robb’s side. You were the one who finished the game.” She shook her head and slid her leg between his to rest more comfortably against him. She felt his arm slid around her back to settle on her hip, squeezing there. “I was such a brat, wasn’t I?”

“Definitely.”

“At least I _talked_ ,” she teased back, “You were always sulking in some corner making everyone feel badly.”

“I do believe we have discussed this before. We were only children.”

She pressed an apologetic kiss to his chest, “So why think on it now?”

He took in a deep breath, “Well, I was thinking about the days before I decided to take the Black. When everyone was happy. When nothing felt too big or impossible.” She didn’t interrupt when he paused. “You liked wearing purple back then.”

“What?”

“Yeah.” She sat up then, hand still on his chest, to look down at him. He reached up to push her hair behind her ear, tugging lightly at the ends as he dropped it. “You wore it all the time. I remember because Theon ruined one once and you didn’t just sit and cry, you went after him and pulled his hair. Nearly ripped a patch of it out.”

“I do remember doing that, yes,” she said, nodding. “What does purple have to do with anything?”

“You never wear it anymore,” he answered blankly. “You must have had the dozens of the things, but since we’ve come back home…I’ve not seen you wear it once.”

Sansa gently cleared her throat, looking away in her confusion. “Why would you notice a thing like that?”

His smile was small, barely perceptible, but his eyes lit up all the same. “I like them. It suited you. And…” he trailed off with a shrug, “Well it just seems like you’ve given up so much of the things you use to love…I suppose it made me wonder.”

Sansa bit her lip and turned her face into her own shoulder to look at him. Sometimes she thought Jon was far too sensitive for his own good. He cared too much about too many things. But maybe too many men had taken too much interest in her over the years. Maybe she was reacting so strongly to this because it was the kind of thing they had taken the time to notice, just to use to their advantage. Hadn’t Littlefinger told the Tyrells of her favorite sweet?

“I haven’t worn purple since I left King’s Landing.” His eyes widened slightly, obviously interested. “That’s what Cersei dressed me in for Joffrey’s wedding to Margery.” She shook her head, hair dislodging from behind her ear to curtain around her face. “It was a horrid day. And it was the last time I saw Margery before…” she cleared her throat and dragged a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face. “It’s not a good reminder.”

“I’m sorry for that.”

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head in disbelief before looking back down at him, smile tugging at her lips.

“It’s only a color.”

“People have taken enough from you without that.”

She laughed again, tapping his chest, “You worry too much.”

Jon didn’t laugh though. Didn’t smile. He did sit up, arms wrapping around her fully. For a long moment, he just looked at her, and she thought he would bend to kiss her. Instead, he dropped his forehead to hers, their gazes still locked on each other.

“I have it on good authority that people haven’t worried enough about you over the years.”

She opened her mouth to argue that point, but then Jon did dip to kiss her. Lightly at first, but then more deeply, until she was so focused on trying to keep him closer to her that she forgot what they were discussing entirely. He kissed her like there was nothing better for them to do, held her closely and comfortably without making her feel trapped. Sansa knew that if she wanted to stop and go back to sleep, she would absolutely be able to do it, and Jon would curl around her and be there when she woke again. She ran her hand up his chest, fingers curving over his shoulder. She didn’t want to stop.

And when he laid her out in front of him and bent down to kiss her again, all she could think was that this was not at all what she had dreamed as a child in those silly purple dresses.

She had dreamed of a white knight.

What she got was a dark prince.

She’d wanted the warm sunshine of the South.

Now she took comfort in her Northern blizzards.

She’d prayed for a lion with golden hair.

Now she longed for wolves with gray eyes and black hair.

She’d been told she would be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and sit beside her husband on the Iron Throne.

Now she shared a bed and a hearth with the Warden of the North.

Her mother had convinced her that she was a sweet child of summer who was to be a perfect lady to the perfect lord.

Her father reminded her she was a wolf of the North, with ice in her veins, and she owed these men nothing.

The world had seen her as a porcelain doll to be passed from player to player as the game played around her.

But Jon saw her as the Red Wolf, the woman who’d united the North against a common enemy, the woman who had him named King in the North.

She still thought him King in the North, and she knew her people did as well. Daenerys, for all her wonderful qualities, would tire of a peaceful Westeros. Had she not built her reign upon conquest? Upon war and slaughter? What did she know of keeping a kingdom when it wasn’t falling apart? What did she know of building and growth? She and Jon had watched her parents do it for years. They’d been taught well, taught wisely, and they knew what consequences came of decisions made on high.

They two would rebuild the North just as they rebuilt their relationship. Jon would be her conscience. Sansa would be his good sense. They needed each other, they needed their pack.

The North remembered.

The Starks endured.

Now was the time for wolves.

 


End file.
